


The Two Faces of Skingrad

by Asheva



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Conspiracy, Minor Character Death, Plague, Spoilers, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asheva/pseuds/Asheva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hero of Kvatch receives a late-night summons from Count Janus Hassildor. Things get progressively worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summons

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfiction I have written in ages. It'll take me a while to get into writing it. I don't have a beta, so if you find mistakes, please point them out. Also, forgive my HTML ineptness. Enjoy!

Sharva gra-Urzaz — known by some as the Hero of Kvatch — had just sat down to dinner. Dreams of grilled slaughterfish, freshly caught from Bravil’s canals, were broken by a loud knocking at her door. 

The Orc growled, reaching for her bow. If this was another lost skooma junkie on their way to the den, Mauloch help them! She didn’t like to be disturbed in the evenings. Unlike the other denizens of Bravil, Sharva preferred a good book to cheap wine and quick company. The knocking persisted. “Milady! A message for milady!” A sickly voice cried out, pausing her loud banging only to cough even more loudly. One of the beggars, then. Putting her bow back, Sharva threw the door open to find a filthy, drenched Imperial on her doorstep. 

“A thousand pardons, kind lady,” Wretched Aia said, “I was told to find ye.” 

“By whom?” Sharva said mildly, pushing back anger and thoughts of slaughterfish. Once again, her evening peace was disturbed by some stupid errand. It seemed after closing an Oblivion gate and saving a few people, she was now expected to be _the_ hero to deal with things. Even her advancement through the Mages Guild — now ranked Warlock, or something — had been stellar, despite hardly knowing any magic.

“A guard captain be waitin’ for you in the Suitor. Looks all official-like. From Skingrad,” Aia said, coughing more. 

Skingrad? Now this was unusual. Sharva had visited the opulent city several times for pleasure (if a hero’s work can be called that), twice on Guild business, and once for a _private_ errand. But for a guard captain to personally travel to this cesspit of Cyrodiil? And request _her_ presence?

“Did the good Captain say why he’s here?” Sharva said.

“No, milady,” the sickly Imperial said, “but he said ye should come ‘at once!’. Threatened to beat me if you was late, he did.” Aia spat and made a rude sign. On reflection, this didn’t bode well. An official summons often preceded some long journey to the far ends of Cyrodiil. Sharva dug around in her pockets and at last found her house key. 

“Can you do something for me? Something important,” Sharva said to the beggar. 

“Anything for you, kind lady!”

Wondering if she was going to regret her generosity one day, the Orc handed Aia the key. “Look after my house while I’m gone. There’s some cold slaughterfish on the table. Still fresh.” At least someone would enjoy her dinner, even if she couldn’t. 

“Arkay bless you for all yer days,” Aia said. Her eyes were shining with joy. She probably hadn’t had somewhere dry to sleep for years, let alone eat something that wasn’t mouldy. “I’ll go tell the Captain that ye be coming straight over.” Aia shambled off into the night, pocketing the keys and mumbling Divine blessings. 

Now, if only she go back to her dinner and forget about beggar-messengers and Skingrad Captains, the Hero of Kvatch thought wistfully. Then she swore long and loudly. “By the Orc-Father! What mess am I getting into now?” 

  


***

  
Fifteen minutes later, armed with her bow and knapsack, Sharva entered the Lonely Suitor Lodge. It was a pleasant enough place. Gro-Galash saw to that. There was always a cheery fire lit and plenty of Ranaline’s meat surprise bubbling away in the hearth. In fact, the Suitor would almost be respectable if not for the many thieves that it attracted. Bogrum gro-Galash greeted her warmly with a hearty chuckle. “Don’t see you around here very often, Orc-Sister! What can I get you?”

“I’m here on business, Bogrum,” Sharva said, waving away the proffered tankard of ale. 

“Ah, maybe one for the road then?” Bogrum chuckled knowingly. Yes, that would be the most likely scenario, wouldn’t it?

“The guard captain from Skingrad, is he upstairs?” Sharva didn’t have all night to chat. She was already tired and very hungry.

“Oh, you mean His Lordship?” Bogrum flapped his arms around in a mockery of courtly politeness. “He refused to sit with the ‘common rabble’,” the publican said with a sly smile. “Well, actually, _they_ refused to sit with him.” Sharva looked around at the disgruntled regulars. Ranaline was crying over an upturned bowl of meat surprise, Daenlin sat grumpily in the corner, and S’Krivva was positively hissing!

“Bad meat,” S’Krivva said with flattened ears. Things were looking peachy. Sighing, Sharva plodded up the stairs. It seemed that Luciana Galena was already trying to have her way with the Skingrad emissary.

“Oh, look at those steel vambraces. The moon detailing. Priceless!” Luciana said, gushing over the Captain. “Are you sure these aren’t for sale?”

“For the last time, no,” the Captain said angrily. “If you don’t leave me alone, I will have you charged with obstructing a guard on official duty.” The young Captain — a face she didn’t recognise — stood up as Sharva reached the landing. Luciana took this distraction to pick the Captain’s pocket and creep back downstairs.

“You took your time, Orc,” the Captain said, tiredness riding on his words.

Pissed off with the night’s proceedings, she replied rudely. “I don’t answer to anyone, _Imperial_. Certainly not Skingrad guards with sticks up their arses.” The Captain harrumphed, but held his gaze.

“I am Danus Artellian, Captain of the Count’s _Personal_ Guard,” Danus said airily.

“I’m the Hero of bloody Kvatch. So what?” Sharva wasn’t impressed by his petty one-upmanship.

“Hmm, let me start again,” the Captain said, relaxing his stance. “Count Hassildor personally asked me to escort you to Skingrad. On an urgent matter.”

“The Count himself? Not Hal-Liurz or gro-Yarug?”

“So you _do_ understand…” Danus looked thoughtful. Sharva, if anything, was troubled. This was a surprising development. Janus Hassildor, Count of Skingrad, was a deeply private man. And very difficult to work with. Her only face-to-face meetings with the Count had been either life-threatening or…tragic. His Argonian steward Hal-Liurz usually handled all courtly matters. Still, she was intrigued.

“Give me the details and I might consider it.”

“It is urgent _and_ personal. That is all you need to know,” Danus said, lips pressed firmly in disapproval. Sharva considered hassling him more, maybe even a small bribe, but something made her pause. Beneath all the bluster and self-importance, was a very loyal and very scared man. Something had turned his world on end. She was determined to find out what.

“Fine. Let’s go.” She started downstairs, eager to find out what was going on. And finally return to her dinnertime in peace. As she passed, Bogrum slipped some stale bread and a cheese wedge in her knapsack with a wink. “Mauloch bless you,” Sharva said sincerely. 

The Captain held the door open as she passed into the damp Bravil night and on to adventure.

  


***

  


They had been riding hard for three hours. Even the excitement of solving a mystery had long burnt out. Her leathers were soaked, cold and heavy against her skin, and her quiver jolted uncomfortably with every trot. Before leaving Bravil, Sharva had stuffed as much cheese and bread into her grumbling stomach as possible. She was now regretting this. But her travelling companion pushed them hard, seemingly unbothered by rain or fatigue.

Captain Artellian had set his face in a hard mask soon after leaving Bravil, and it stayed this way throughout the journey. They were on an official mission, after all. She had tried to ward off sleep with conversation, but Danus remained silent as they rode on. 

Sharva stifled a yawn, then almost fell off her horse. A quick hand grabbed her shoulder and hoisted back in the saddle. “Try to stay on the horse, you idiot,” the Captain said gruffly.

“Oh, so you _can_ talk,” she said sleepily. Danus made an odd sound, somewhere between disgust and a chuckle.

“We are nearing Skingrad,” the Imperial said, pointing in the distance. Indeed, as they crested the hill, she could see the tall spires and crenellations of Castle Skingrad peeping out of the woodland. Red banners hung from towers, bearing the city’s moon heraldry. Skingrad was a pretty city. Not like Bravil at all. Very wealthy, with well-dressed people and rich foods. And a mysterious Count. Sharva knew what he was, but honestly tried not to think too much about it.

“Keep moving,” Danus said impatiently. “The Count expects us at the castle as soon as possible.”

“I can’t see the Count like this,” Sharva said, ushering her horse to a stop. Rain still fell in patches, but the clouds had cleared enough to see that Masser and Secunda were nearing the horizon. It was one or two in the morning, perhaps later. She hadn’t slept all night and felt ill from her improvised dinner.

“By the Nine…” The Captain sounded exasperated. “Fine. One hour, to refresh yourself.” It pained him to delay his orders any further. Janus Hassildor was not a man to disappoint. Sharva grumbled but continued down the slope to Skingrad. 

  


***

  


The stablemaster — an Orc named Ugak — greeted them at the gates. She didn’t seem to be interested in the travellers, only their exhausted mounts.

“Poor beauties. Tilmo will have a fit.” Ugak said, stroking the horses’ muzzles as she stabled them. Sharva wondered if the Skingrad stablemaster had been born in Cyrodiil. Her accent was almost Colovian, but still carried the roughness of Wrothgar. As an outcast from the Skyrim strongholds, Sharva was always fascinated by her Cyrodillic Orc-sisters. It hadn’t been easy for her to adjust to life without the Code of Malacath. A few months ago, a ‘cultural misunderstanding’ landed her in the Imperial City prison. It seemed an age has passed since then.

The stablemaster, finished with the horses, drew Captain Danus aside. The words they exchanged were hurried, frantic, and hushed beyond Sharva’s hearing. Frowning, the Captain pressed a small bag of septims into Ugak’s hand. Ugh, this whole secret thing was getting annoying. 

“Come on,” Danus said as the stablemaster walked away, septims jingling. “There’s a room ready for you at the Two Sisters’ Lodge.” They passed though the wide ditch that separated Skingrad North from the poorer West. Very few guards patrolled the streets. Far less than usual. Odd.

The inn was very accommodating. Especially once Sharva mentioned she was on official Skingrad business. The owner Mog even brought up fresh wash water from the well and gave her a sweetroll to munch on while she waited. During this time, Mog had asked many, many questions. If Sharva hadn’t been half delirious from lack of sleep, she would have asked questions in return. But she simply nodded non-committedly and shrugged into her best courtly clothes (a tatty Conjurer’s Robe).

Within an hour, she was ready to set out again. Danus had tidied his hair and changed into a fresh surcoat, but the hard expression was still present. Sharva didn’t blame him. She probably had a very similar frown on her face. “Let’s get this over with,” the Captain said grimly. 

Somehow, she knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

  


***

  


No guards patrolled the way up to the castle. Stranger still, the torches on the bridge to the Castle were unlit. Just what was going on here? Danus, face stoic and unmoving, revealed very little. When they reached the great castle gates, he drew out a small horn and blew three clear notes. The gates opened at once and they were quickly ushered inside.

“Captain!” The gatekeeper saluted and quickly added, “Ma’am".

“That will be all, guardsman,” Danus said to the gatekeeper, “See that we are not disturbed.” The gatekeeper saluted once more, then scurried off to the barracks.

“What in the name of Malacath is going on here?” Sharva said.

“Not here.” Danus grabbed her arm roughly. He led her into the County Hall and up a flight of stairs. They passed the dining hall and private quarters, before finally stopping at the door to the Lord’s Manor. With his free hand, he patted down his surcoat for a key that was no longer there. Sharva was fed up. Damned if she was going to be paraded around like a prize horker!

“Let go of me, you Imperial bastard.” She tore her arm from his grasp, pushing him away with all her strength. Danus, caught off guard, stumbled and fell.

“Assaulting a guardsman is a serious offence,” the Captain said, but his heart wasn’t in it. Sharva bit back a scathing repose, instead offered a hand to the Imperial. To his credit, he took it without retaliation. “His Grace should be waiting for you beyond this door,” Danus said as he smoothed down his surcoat. “I promise he will explain everything.” In a quieter tone, he added, “Please, just hear what he has to say. These are hard times for Skingrad.”

“I’ll try, I guess,” Sharva said as opened the locked door with a small cantrip. Volanaro and J’skar had helped her perfect that one. The Captain gave her a sad, uncharacteristic smile before closing it behind her.

The door led into a narrow corridor that ended in a vast, empty hall. She had never seen anything so grand in all her travels around Cyrodiil! Large braziers cast dancing shadows across the high archways. Fine embroidered banners and carpets, almost blood-like (and surely not unintentional), dominated the cold stonework. And at its terminus, a throne carved from ebony.

There sat the Count of Skingrad, Janus Hassildor, in all his glory.


	2. Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While lore fidelity is important to me, sometimes I like to free form. The Orc funerary traditions were inspired by Tibetan sky burials. Just don't look up pictures if you are squeamish (I made that mistake). Also, a big shout out to the kind guest who left a kudos. I really appreciate it!

The Hero of Kvatch had encountered vampires many times in her travels, here in Cyrodiil and in her native Skyrim. At one point, she had even — and wasn’t this a close thing? — been stricken with Porphyric Hemophilia after eliminating a coven near Skingrad. On the order of Count Skingrad, no less. Mauloch must be laughing at the irony of this. Then again, the luck of the Orismer was notoriously bad. 

But none of these encounters prepared her for Janus Hassildor. The man was…complex. Unfathomable to an Orc who valued plain-speaking and directness.

Sharva first met the Count as a young Journeyman of the Mages Guild. He had saved her from a Necromancer ambush, deflecting a mace blow with his bare hands and crushing her attackers’ windpipes. Such battle prowess was unheard of among Cyrodiilic nobility. Most Counts or Countesses preferred court over combat. This one was different. It was only until the Orc saw his gaunt face and fierce eyes that she realized how different.

When they met a second time, he skillfully manipulated her into murdering four vampire hunters. Well, at least that’s how _she_ saw it. The hunters, eager to find their quarry, had rushed off into Bloodcrust Cavern at her word and met a bloody end. Count Hassildor didn’t seem to care about their fate. Perhaps he was like the other nobility, after all.

The third time? Well, she didn't like to think about that too much.

The man in question sat unmoving on the dais. Half his face lay in shadow and the other in flickering light. Blood-red eyes — intelligent and aware — surveyed the hall. From a distance, the Count’s skin seemed to outshine his embellished finery. But as Sharva moved closer, she saw it was the barely perceptible shimmer of a heavy glamour. She didn’t know much about Illusion magic (or any magic, to be honest), yet its purpose was clear. Here was a man determined to keep up appearances.

“You came,” the Count said, fixing those dangerous eyes on her. His expression remained neutral. Or maybe that was the glamour.

“You summoned me,” Sharva replied tersely, then added, “my Lord.” Disrespecting the nobility never ended well. Especially if said noble was an immensely powerful mage and vampire. Count Hassildor simply raised an eyebrow.

“Of course, you must be exhausted.” Janus Hassildor smiled. “But this matter is urgent. Things are moving beyond my control. I would not have summoned you otherwise.”

“So I was told.”

“Yes. Please send my regards to Captain Artellian when you see him next. Now, to business.” Count Hassildor clasped his hands together. “Skingrad is under attack.”

“ _Under attack_?” Well, Raminus Polus always did warn her to prepare for the unexpected. Particularly when county Skingrad is involved. 

“Allow me to explain. Without interruption,” the Count said, frowning. “It is not an attack as you may think it. There is a horrible sickness spreading among my citizens. Some have died, including my steward. My stewardess is nowhere to be found.”

Shum gro-Yarug dead? Hal-Liurz missing? That would explain why Danus Artellian was acting as messenger. Count Hassildor continued. “This is no natural disease. By reason of my…unique condition, I have made many enemies,” Hassildor said solemnly. “It saddens me to think that I might be the cause of my city’s misfortune.”

“Do you have any suspects? Where and when did the symptoms start?” The Count waved his hand to silence her.

“Perhaps you are not the fool I once took you for,” Janus Hassildor said, “Start your inquiries tomorrow, but be careful! I do not have to remind you what is at stake.” He passed her a delicate silver amulet inscribed with Skingrad’s moon heraldry. It was highly ensorcelled, but she couldn’t make out the specific enchantments.

“I accept, of course,” Sharva said.

Count Skingrad smiled without warmth, bearing a hint of sharp canines. “And you thought you had a choice? Maybe you are a fool,” the Count said. “I will do anything to protect my own. Report here tomorrow night after the eleventh bell.” Glamour or no glamour, here was the true heart of Janus Hassildor. A man both loved _and_ feared.

She hastily bowed and left the Count to his thoughts.

  


***

  


Sharva woke late. Her bed was very comfortable, far better than any she had slept in previously. Except the one time she jumped on the Chieftain’s bed while he was out hunting. That one had been made with Hagraven feathers. A luxurious possession, considering the feathers were only obtained from powerful, crazed witches. Killing them wasn’t easy.

It would be very easy just to lie here and listen to the goings-on in the street below. But she couldn’t. She rose and scrubbed her face in the small washbasin Mog had left. Unfortunately, her leathers were still wet from the night’s ride. A robe would be unwise. Most common folk still distrusted mages and with a plague going on, she needed their confidence. She settled on a pair of light breeches and a quilted tunic. Count Hassildor’s amulet went around her neck and a small dagger at her side.

Mog, good-natured as ever, had breakfast waiting for her. Another sweetroll and some tomato soup. Both were surprisingly good.

Her belly filled, she got to work.

  


***

  


It was almost peaceful here. Beautifully carved mausolea surrounded her. Most were dusty and dulled with age, but one caught her eye. Familiar somehow. A carving of an Imperial woman with braided hair and peaceful smile. In the flickering light, she seemed almost alive. Clasped in her hands was a small bunch of nightshade. Her name had long since faded (Ruma? Roni?), but the flowers were fresh. 

Yet, Sharva desperately wished she was somewhere else. Even Bravil would be better. As a warrior, she had killed before. Felt life snuffed out many times. While hunting deer for the stronghold. In the service of the Blades. Defending herself against bandits. Exploring ancient ruins. How could anyone on Nirn avoid killing? She had seen death before, but not like this.

Five biers lay side by side. On three lay the recent dead: the steward Shum gro-Yarug, a Bosmer farmhand, and the blacksmith Agnete. Each body showed the disease in a different way. The Orsimer’s skin hid most of the discoloration, whereas the Bosmer boy looked blackened and shriveled. Skin had sloughed off in large patches around the lips and hands. Agnete was by far the worst. She had long, bloody scratch marks along her limbs — self-inflicted, Sharva guessed — as if her very body was on fire. All three had been washed and presented neatly, but even this could not hide the violence of their deaths.

She stood by Shum’s bier. Burial rituals were very different in Cyrodiil. These people would be interred the graveyard or, if they were nobility, placed in great stone mausolea below the Chapel. In the strongholds, bodies were left in sacred charnel grounds to be eaten by scavengers. The dead were considered weak. Yet certain types of death were more worthy than others. A chieftain or noble warrior who had died in battle would be cremated. This is how her father had returned to Mauloch’s side.

“Malacath guide your soul to the Ashpit, blood of Orismer,” Sharva said, intoning the ritual phrase. She lay a palm on the steward’s still chest. Such a terrible way for an Orc to die. Bladeless and defenceless.

A shrill voice rent the foreboding silence. “What in Julianos’s name are you doing down here?” A balding Imperial strode down the steps into the Chapel Undercroft. Valandrus Abor, if she remembered correctly.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Sharva said, caught off guard. She wasn’t trespassing per se, but the door had been closed. And _maybe_ locked until she flung a spell at it.

“How dare you desecrate this holy place!” The Primate struck her cheek with a meaty hand.

“I am on official business for Count Hassildor!” She roared, bearing her tusks in aggression.

“That’s what they all say, pig,” Abor said. “As if the Count would see the likes of you.” He advanced towards her, hands lit with deadly flames. She drew her dagger in response. No one bests an Orc. A fiery ball collided with her chest. She tensed, expecting to be roasted alive. Nothing happened. The Imperial threw another and another, before collapsing from magicka exhaustion. Sharva patted herself down, but could find no more serious damage than singed eyebrows. Her hand clasped the amulet. The Count must have placed a powerful aegis on it. “Mauloch be praised,” she said, finding courage to approach the downed priest.

“Daedra, foul beast…” Valandrus said deliriously. Sharva knelt down and shoved the amulet in his face.

“I _am_ on official business for Count Hassildor,” she said, punctuating each word with a push. “If you touch me again, you answer to him.” She wished she could have roughed him up some more, but she also had to answer to the Count.

“I…this proves nothing,” the Primate said hastily. He stood, haughtily rearranging his ruffled finery “Besides, I thought you were that Hlaalu woman. You mer all look the same.” A loud wailing descended from the Chapel proper, accompanied by drumbeats and flutes. “Not those filthy Nords again!” Valandrus stormed off angrily.

She was left alone with the dead.

  


***

  


The sun dipped lower and lower into the sky. So far, Sharva had found out nothing new about the disease. A very unproductive day. Count Hassildor would not be pleased. Sighing, she entered All Things Alchemical. 

A smiling Dunmer woman greeted her at the door. “I’m Falanu Hlaalu,” the alchemist said cheerfully. “What can I interest you in?” She had a strange accent, almost lilting. A pile of bones, some mort flesh, and a single skull sat on the workbench. The skull was highly polished, as if touched repeatedly. Falanu noticed her interest. “Oh, those,” she said, quickly stowing the grizzly mess out of sight. “They’re for one of my clients. Good bone meal is hard to come by.” Right. Well, she _was_ an alchemist. 

“I’m investigating the recent deaths on behalf on Count Skingrad,” Sharva said. Probably best to start with this. She ran a hand across her eyebrows. Everyone was so jumpy in this town.

“What makes you think I have anything to do with that?” Falanu crossed her arms. 

“The Primate mentioned you visit the Undercroft a lot.”

“Valandrus? He’s a racist s’wit.” The alchemist’s face crinkled in disgust. “I was paying my respects to poor Agnete.”

“The blacksmith? You knew her?” Finally, she was getting somewhere.

“She was a dear friend,” Falanu said, smiling softly. “Used to come in here for headache remedies. Even fixed the stand on my alembic last month.”

“Did you notice anything strange? Any odd symptoms?”

“I’m an alchemist, not a healer,” the Dunmer said. But her eyes told a different story. They darted around like a pair of frolicking slaughterfish.

“But you _do_ know something.” Sharva crossed over to a shelf laden with tiny, labelled vials. There were so many to choose from. “Every alchemist worth their void salts knows how to make a good cure disease potion.” The Orc held up a small pink vial marked ‘Cure Disease’ in a neat script. Thankfully, Raminus had the patience to teach her letters.

“I…” The Dunmer faltered, drawing in a series of short, sharp breaths. Her calm demeanor crumpled into frantic worry. “Nothing worked! I gave her everything I could think of. Not even mandrake worked. That _always_ works!”

“Agnete came to you? When?”

“It was…uh…last Tirdas, I think,” Falanu said, “I was pulping Columbine root at the time. She looked horrible. I mean, she always looks horrible. But this was worse!” She choked a little, her red eyes glistening. “I’ve never seen anything like it. So aggressive. Agnete only lasted two days before…” Falanu broke into loud, racking sobs.

Sharva shifted uncomfortably. She wasn’t good with emotions. Attachment — like almost everything else in the strongholds — was weakness. Of course, that hadn’t stopped her sneaking into the charnel grounds to cry for her father. She still remembers how the old bones had shimmered in the moonlight. No bones for Urzaz gro-Dushnikh, just ashes in the wind.

“I’ll…come back later,” Sharva said, as softly as she could manage.

Caught up in her grief, the Dunmer didn’t even notice her leave.

  


***

  


Thunder rumbled in the distance, in time with the deep thrumming of the eleventh bell. Count Hassildor was already waiting for her. The braziers, once cheery and grand, were dimmed almost to embers. The hall was shrouded in near darkness. Sharva lit a small flare spell to guide her way. Just one foot in front of the other until reached the Count.

She stumbled as her toes hit the dais, causing her spell to blaze wildly. Such things needed constant concentration and willpower to control (she had little of both). The Count winced at the sudden light, shielding his eyes with a shaking hand. He drew in a long, hissing breath. Like ill-fated winds over haunted barrows. Realizing the source of his discomfort, Sharva quickly extinguished the flame.

“Tell me what you have discovered,” Count Hassildor said, lowering his hand. The glamours were still in place. He looked tired. Beyond tired.

“I spoke with the alchemist, Falanu Hlaalu,” Sharva said. “She tried to treat one of the victims with mandrake root. No effect.” Count Hassildor remained silent, but his brow was furrowed. “I also went to the Undercroft…” She began, only to be interrupted.

“Yes, I am aware of your activities in the Chapel,” Count Hassildor said, frustration clear in his voice, “Primate Abor has already submitted a complaint.”

“He attacked me!” Sharva touched her singed hair. It would grow back.

“Regardless, you are my representative. How you choose to respond reflects on me.” Count Hassildor stood up swiftly. His fists were clenched and eyes filled with anger. Even though he stood a head shorter than her, she found herself stumbling backwards into the dark. “I expected you to show some discretion, not pick fights!” Those last words were snarled with fangs showing.

“Yes, my Lord.” She had never been so humiliated in all her life. Yet she was not permitted to strike him to defend her honour, as she would in the strongholds. The Code of Malacath was clear: she must acknowledge her weakness. Sharva dropped to her knees, head bowed low.  
The Count pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing slowly. “Divines…” Hassildor said. “Get up, you fool.” She rose, but kept her eyes lowered. If this was Skyrim, her head would already be separated from her shoulders. Or worse. Thankfully, Cyrodiil preferred words to actions. But the sting was no less than a blade.

He threw her doublet emblazoned with Skingrad heraldry. “I have officially named you my Court Wizard. Wear this in future. To avoid further _misunderstandings_.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Her eyes remained fixed on the floor she could barely see.

“Please, leave me.” 

She had a feeling he wouldn’t ask twice.

  


***

  


A guild porter arrived the next day, bearing a parcel from the Arcane University. Sharva was still half-asleep when he knocked on her door. Apparently, Raminus has been informed of the situation. He’d sent several books on historic plagues — detailing symptoms, quarantine measures and such — and one on healing herbs. Caught up among the dusty tomes was a brief letter from Arch-Mage Traven. The usual “keep us informed, watch Hassildor carefully” bullshit.

To be honest, she trusted Hassildor more than she trusted Traven. Many believed that half the Arcane Council were compromised (and the others were idiots). Master-Wizard Caranya was quick to punish anyone spreading these rumours. Once, a whole dormitory had been set to resorting the Mystic Archives. Not a pleasant task.

The package also contained a copy of an official writ. By the order of Arch-Mage Traven and the Arcane Council, all Skingrad guild mages were being recalled to Anvil. Champion Oreyn of the Fighters Guild was taking similar precautions.

One thing was clear. Skingrad was now in quarantine.


	3. Sabotage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very long wait. Life can be hectic at times! Also, general disclaimer: I don't own TES 4: Oblivion or its associated characters. These are the property of Bethesda. 
> 
> The scene with Uvani was inspired by ReaperRain's interpretation of Alor/Uvani (https://www.fanfiction.net/u/1135093/ReaperRain). A special call out to TESfangirrl, who left a very kind comment. This chapter is for you.

Nights at the West Weald Inn — contrary to the sombre, uneventful days — were very lively. But not quite as lively as the Two Sisters, who certainly knew how to throw a true Orc-style bash. Sharva hadn’t had a tripe trifle half as good as the one Mog made for her.  
  
All the noble townsfolk had gathered for an evening of uninhibited revelry. Unusual perhaps, but not unexpected given the terrible events plaguing (pun intended) Skingrad. A Breton lass was playing a jaunty reel on the flute. Over in the corner, a drunk patron provided accompaniment with enthusiastic foot-stomping. The hearth was roaring cheerily and Sharva could smell a sizzling spit roast. The Orc secretly hoped it was venison. Preferably encrusted with snowberries and served bloody. She hadn’t had a good roast venison since Dushnikh.  
  
A dour-looking woman met her at the door. Her eyes lit up when she saw Sharva’s symbols of office. The Orc hadn’t bothered changing into casual clothes and still wore the moon-detailed gules surcoat. “Oh my, the new Court Wizard. Toutius, come here!” She waved over a richly dressed Imperial. “Welcome to the West Weald Inn. I’m Erina Jenus, at your service.” The innkeeper gave polite nod in her direction. “Our clientele is not normally as _undignified_ as this, I can assure you.” Stepping into the light, Sharva pulled back her cloak’s heavy woollen hood. Immediately, the proprietor soured. “Although, I suppose _you_ will fit right in. Jurgen will be with you shortly.”  
  
Sharva, used to this childishness by now, walked past the two Imperials. “I’ll find my own seat,” the Orc said gruffly. Seeing a free chair by the hearth, she pushed her way through dancing patrons, only to crash face-first (or body first, given the height difference) into a Bosmer she hadn’t seen. He went down like a drunken dremora. “Mauloch, sorry,” she grunted apologetically, offering the downed mer a hand.  
  
“Quite alright, friend”, the Bosmer warrior said gregariously. He rubbed his bruised rump. Nothing like full plate to add injury to injury. As the warrior leaned closer, Sharva caught wind of his foul, ale-laden breath. He even _smelt_ like a drunken dremora. The Bosmer sized her up. “Say, you’re a big one! Wanna join the Fighter’s Guild?”  
  
“Uh, no thanks,” she hastily replied, backing — cautiously this time — towards the free chair. It was seated at a large table, occupied by only two patrons. Both Dunmer, although they couldn’t have been more different from each other. One had the sourest cast she had ever seen. And she had seen some grumpy-looking people in her time. The worst — until this point — being the old Chieftain before her father, Garphumph the Windbreaker. In contrast, the younger Dark Elf sat quietly, tapping his hand lightly in time with the flute, a soft smile on his face.  
  
Sharva had only lightly touched the back of the chair when the older Dunmer snapped at her. “Did I say you could sit here, guttersnipe?” Furious, she crossed her arms. Who in Mauloch’s name did this dragur-son think he was? The mer’s sour look deepened at her obstinance (if such a thing were possible). “By Azura, you _are_ thick, aren’t you? Let me make it perfectly clear. Walk away, before I get…nasty.”  
  
Before she could give the arrogant horker a taste of _her_ nasty, a slender arm linked around hers and pulled her away from the table. Her rescuer — or interrupter, as she saw it — was an Altmer, shabbily dressed with equally unkempt hair. “Alval Uvani,” the High Elf said breezily, “Quite a horrible fellow. You are very lucky to have survived close proximity. Perhaps you have a unique resistance to hubris. Something to study another time, perhaps.”  
  
“And you are?” Sharva said, wresting free her arm.  
  
“Oh yes, how forgetful of me! Sinderion, master alchemist and reclusive basement-dweller. I don’t normally leave my little home underground, but all this noise is making it very difficult to concentrate. I’m working on a special Elixir, you see.” Sinderion led her to the bar, where he waved down a flustered Nord. “Jurgen, get this young lady something to eat.” Young? In the Strongholds, she would almost be a matron! She had even started wearing her hair in the traditional style. “This is where I leave you, my dear,” the Altmer bowed elegantly, “All this bother is making me rather uncomfortable.” Sharva acknowledged his parting and watched as Sinderion slipped quietly back into the basement. Were all Skingrad citizens so…eccentric?  
  
Standing where she was, Sharva could hear the hushed conversation between Erina and her Imperial friend. People always seemed to forget that the Orsimer had good hearing. “An Orc?” Erina hissed angrily, “As Court Wizard?”  
  
“Father would never have stood for this.” Toutius replied in deep, well-spoken nasal tones. Sharva had seen him lurking around the Castle, although he never seemed to do much else. “Being replaced by an Orc was shameful enough”  
  
“Yes, disgusting isn’t it? Those pi… _people_ stealing positions of perfectly capable Imperials.” Sharva bristled at the insult almost used. She longed to punch someone right now. Erina, Toutius, Uvani, it didn’t matter.  
  
Toutius continued. “Well said, my friend. We can only hope she goes the way of the last Court Wizard.” A brief pause as Toutius sipped his drink. “Nerastarel. The Numbered, my father used to call her. Obsessed with counting things. And the Count, so I heard…”  
  
_CRASH!_ At that very moment, the inn door slammed open. Falanu stood in the entranceway, outer cloak dashing wildly and face just as furious. The flute player stopped abruptly, sensing the shift in mood. “Right!” The Dunmer alchemist spoke in a low, dangerous tone. “Which one of you thieving n’wahs destroyed my store? If I ever find out who did this…” Smiling cruelly, Uvani spat something venomous back in Dunmeris. It must have been very offensive because Falanu flushed and strode towards him, fists raised. “B’vek! How d-dare you accuse me of… _that_ , Houseless scum. I loved…”  
  
Sharva quickly cut off her off with a strong arm around her shoulders. “Falanu! Calm down.” The Dark Elf stared at up her with tear-welled eyes and trembling mouth. Ignoring the rising cacophony of voices, Sharva ushered the distraught Dunmer outside. She hoped the unseasonable cold would chill fiery tempers. Besides, she couldn’t stand another minute in that place. “What happened?”  
  
Falanu slumped, becoming boneless in the Orc’s hold. “All of it. My stores, my equipment! Even that alembic Agnete fixed. All destroyed.” Sniffling, the Dunmer let her head sink against Sharva’s side. “I-I can’t do this anymore.” The Orismer, unsure of where to put her hands, settled on the smaller mer’s shoulders. “Just like before…” Falanu whimpered, eyes glazing to stare at some unseen vision. Feeling sympathetic, Sharva patted the alchemist awkwardly. They stood on the cobbles for some time, watching the first, sleet-like drops of rain descend. 

  


***  
  
Sharva relayed her adventures to the Count later that evening. Frankly, she was very tired and just wanted to crawl back to bed. Count Hassildor listened patiently, head cocked in a thoughtful pose. Or at least he appeared to. His eyes, normally bright and piercing, were unfocused. The glamours he had wrapped around him were so strong they bled magicka like a halo. This was the only light to see by. The braziers remained cool and unlit.  
  
“There is a… personal request I must make of you,” the Count said slowly, after she had finished. The words were laboured and cumbersome, like a foot stuck deep in a frozen marsh. “Follow me, please.” Sharva obeyed, but kept her distance. Those glamours were truly powerful.  
  
He led her from the vast hall into a smaller, cosier antechamber. They reached a closed door. He intoned a short cantrip, causing bright flares to stream from his outstretched fingers. The power it contained made her unlocking spell look pitiful. The door shivered for a second, then swung open. Beyond lay a room, simply furnished. It was in quite a state of disarray. Books littered the floor and more covered a small desk in the corner. Curious, she picked one up. _Opusculus Lamae Bal ta Mezzamortie_ , the worn cover read. What a mouthful.  
  
Count Hassildor looked almost embarrassed. She could see no reason why. Unless…Orc-Father preserve her, these must be the Count’s private chambers! With a sweep of his hand, he caught the clutter with a telekinesis spell. Mysticism had few devoted followers outside the Guild, but it had its uses, it seemed. Fascinated, Sharva watched as the Count carefully levitated books into shelves and papers into piles.  
  
“You may sit, if you wish.” Count Hassildor motioned to a waiting seat. He sat across from her, suddenly look very careworn. “This is a delicate matter, one that I do not share easily,” the Count said wearily. “Perhaps it is best if I show you.” A few incanted words and the glamours melted away like spring snow.  
  
Oh. She should have seen this coming.  
  
Janus Hassildor looked like a man on the edge of death (which was not far from the truth). His skin was the colour of ice and the texture of parchment. Dark circles ringed vibrant, intense eyes. A feverish pallor framed his gaunt features.  
  
“When did you last feed?” Sharva said. She knew a little about vampirism. Raminus had made her read the quintessential _Immortal Blood_ after her first encounter with Count Skingrad. An interesting tale, but somewhat predictable.  
  
“Longer than I care to admit,” the Count said honestly. “Hal-Liurz…” His voice wavered slightly at her name. “My stewardess willingly volunteered her person. Without her gift, I am slowly descending into madness.”  
  
“Couldn’t you just…visit someone in the night?” The Count frowned at the suggestion.  
  
“I would not weaken my people to slake my own thirsts. Especially now of all times.”  
  
“They need you to be strong. Now more than ever.” Strength was everything. A weak Chieftain would immediately be disposed of by a stronger rival. The tribe’s welfare was more important than one mer’s life. Or one mer’s blood. “That’s what you asked me here for, wasn’t it? Don’t smother me with pleasantries.”  
  
“You are perceptive, if not a little blunt. But I wonder just how much you know.” He leant towards her, brow furrowed.  
  
“Do I need to know more? You need to feed. Well, feed on me,” she said bluntly. “I don’t care, so long as you remain a capable leader.” Count Hassildor _was_ a good ruler, when not overcome by his other nature. The citizens of Skingrad never had anything bad to say about their reclusive ruler.  
  
“This is not some folly easily agreed to. I could forget myself and kill you.”  
  
“I wouldn’t go down without a fight. Besides, I’ve killed vampires before.” It was unlikely she would have to fight him. The very fact they were having this conversation showed he could be trusted not to rip her throat out.  
  
“An outcome neither of us would prefer.” Count Hassildor rose and knelt by her chair. Long, cold fingers curled around her wrist, pinning it to the armrest.  
  
“I-I thought vampires usually went for the neck,” Sharva said, her voice squeaking slightly. It was the best place, after all. She’d seen ice wolves bring down deer that way. A snarling dance until the prey’s lifeblood faltered.  
  
“That presumes intimacy...” She flushed in embarrassment. Great, now things were awkward. “Or invites destruction.” His grip tightened, threatening to crush her bones. “It is easy to become… _overwhelmed_ when such abundance is promised.” Sharva panicked, unused to being trapped, but the Count’s grip remained firm. He was surprisingly strong! “Be sure this is what you want,” he said calmly, although his voice was rough with hunger. The Count showed remarkable control for a half-starved vampire. No wonder he had remained undiscovered for so long.  
  
“Yes, just do it already.” Her nerves made her testy. Orcs rarely took anything lying down. Besides, she just wanted to go back to bed. She drew in a deep breath as sharp fangs grazed soft skin. He bit down hard.  
  
It hurt. Of course it hurt. Sad to say, the legends and folk tales were wrong. Count Hassildor tore into her flesh, parting skin and muscle to reach plump veins. But the pain was not unbearable. Once, as a young Orc living in the strongholds, Sharva had borrowed her brother’s hunting bow. She must have been five or six at the time. When she’d tried to nock an arrow, the string lashed back against her arm. Half the skin had stripped off. The Wise Woman Shalob refused to heal her. A fitting punishment for her foolishness, the old skeever reasoned. Sharva had lain in agony for days.  
  
Her fingers were growing cold, but she couldn’t flex them without disturbing the Count. He continued to draw blood, one hand pinning her wrist and the other gently massaging her arm. The warm tingle of a healing spell leaked from his fingers into stiff, bruised muscle. It helped, but did not take away the sharp, dizzying edge of pain. She doubted it would heal properly. Orcs and magic rarely mixed well.  
  
Finally, the ordeal was over. Count Hassildor pulled away, hair lightly mussed and cheeks suffused with a healthy glow. He looked better. More…supple, if that made sense. As if he had been bathed in a restorative spell. Secretly, she wondered how vampire physiology worked. There were precious few texts on the matter, and mostly based on first-hand experiences.  
  
Janus Hassildor let out a quiet sigh, shoulders visibly relaxing. Or perhaps it was more like the first breath of a drowning man: a strange mix of old fear and new relief. His eyes had changed to a deep amber, although they still had a feral cast. In the low candlelight, he looked almost human. It was unusual to see the Count so boyish. Vulnerable, even. Half her bunkmates at Arcane University would be swooning right now. Orc-Father knows they did with Raminus. Hassildor would be a great catch, if he wasn’t so prickly – or a powerful undead creature.  
  
“Thank you,” he said after a heavy silence, “I cannot express what this means to me.”  
  
Sharva shrugged sheepishly, and then winced as the movement jolted her ravaged arm. “No harm done.” She cleared her throat loudly, trying to break the awkwardly intimate atmosphere. Count Hassildor was her…boss? Liege lord? Chieftain? Certainly not anything else. “Are you…fine?” That seemed like a good thing to ask.  
  
“This is not something I revel in. It is a necessity, nothing more,” Hassildor said openly. Sharva watched as his lifted a hand to the candle on the table. Slowly, like the unfurling of mountain flowers, the Count let his fingers run through the flame. After a while, he snuffed it out with a gentle smothering. “Although… I cannot deny there is something satisfying in this.” He leant forward, capturing her gaze. “Does that frighten you?”  
  
“No,” Sharva returned his candour. She was curious, definitely. Oddly enthralled and a little overwhelmed. But never frightened. “It’s something you do to survive. I can respect that.”  
  
“How novel,” he replied, a small smile on his lips. He offered her a goblet from the table, filled with a dark, foul-smelling ichor. Some kind of alchemical brew. “Please, drink. It will help with the pain.”  
  
“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse bites from wolves.”  
  
“There will be no compromise.” Count Hassildor growled, some of his hardness returning. “Never with this.” Pale hands quickly brushed — as if habitual — the amulet around his neck. A curious golden drop of stylised knot-work, set with a single turquoise gem. Far too feminine for her tastes. “I will not initiate another unwittingly.”  
  
“Will this be a regular sort of thing, then?” She said with a grimace, lifting the potion-filled goblet to her lips. Sharva despised appointments, which she either forgot about or avoided all together. That never made Raminus or her other mentors happy. But there was something liberating about being her own Orc.  
  
“If you choose so, yes,” the Count said, gaging her reaction intently. _My choice_. Sharva snorted, almost spitting out the revolting potion. Urgh, worse than a giant’s armpit. Count Skingrad had outplayed her well before she even picked up her first piece. Manipulative bastard. Face unreadable, Hassildor relaxed back in his chair. “I am not a slavering beast or slave to baser instincts. Every second or third day should be sufficient.”  
  
“And I’m not some tavern wench you can call at whim,” Sharva said indignantly. “I think a trade is only fair.”  
  
“Oh?” The Count said. “And what would you require of me?” At this stage, she could ask for almost anything. But monetary goods, lands, a horse, meaningless titles? She had all these things. What she really wanted was a small measure of personal satisfaction.  
  
“Trust”. The Orc said simply. For it was a simple concept and a simple trade. “All of this…” She waved her good arm about his quarters, “This is _me_. Trusting _you_. I might be serving you as Court Wizard, but I am not your servant. The least you could do is trust me in return.”  
  
“Very well,” Count Hassildor sighed, rubbing his temples. “But for the sake of propriety, I will ask you to follow courtly convention in the presence of others.”  
  
“Fair enough,” Sharva said, before adding a sarcastic, Bravil-style “ _Milord_ ”. Blood loss had made her bold. She slowly stood up, feeling her head spin. That vile brew had done wonders for her arm, but hadn’t improved her raging headache. Hastily, she reached for the door. She didn’t want time to think about what she had just agreed to.  
  
“Wait.” The Count stopped her with a hand wrapped around her good arm. “Miss…gra-Urzaz, was it not?”  
  
“Sharva is fine.” She wasn’t technically gra-Urzaz anymore. Just another landless Orc.  
  
“Janus.” He proffered a hand, which she shook firmly. It was unusually warm, flushed with what she could only assume was her own blood. How strange. Then again, gross things like that rarely phased her now. Not with whole Hero-of-Kvatch thing.  
  
“Janus,” she repeated, a little dumbstruck. It felt bizarre to address this proud, controlled man — this vampire — so informally. But not unpleasant. In fact, it was a small victory. Like a stolen swig of mead back in Dushnikh Yal: forbidden, but oh so warming.  
  
She ignored the dirty look Artellian gave her as she exited the Lord’s Manor. When did she start caring about that pompous Imperial? Nothing could ruin her mood — except maybe her splitting headache. _Finally_ , Sharva thought, as she stumbled across the County Hall, woozy but in good spirits. _I’m making some progress_.


End file.
